Silence
by flutflutflyer
Summary: On the eve of Mako and Asami's wedding, he loses himself in the heat of the moment and shouts the wrong name. Now Asami is left to deal with the aftermath: What is fact, and what is fiction? Broken Masami, implied Makorra. One-shot.


A/N: Non-canon. I don't even ship this. The idea was in my head, and I couldn't get it out.

Warning: Sexual themes, nothing erotic.

As a male, please excuse any failures on writing from a female perspective.

* * *

The passion reaches its apex, the top of the curve, the upwards swing. Her entire vision is taken by his mesmerising amber eyes, the fire in them hot as the connection between them, setting her alight with his intensity.

At the very climax, her back arching, her fingernails raking his back, her body twitching and convulsing with the pleasure-pain coursing through it, she hears him scream the name:

"_Korra!_"

Then he is spent, chest heaving, sweat dotting his brow, his face nuzzling her neck.

She knows she misheard, and she kisses him softly on the lips. He smiles. "Good night, my love," he whispers, drawing the blanket over them and wrapping his arms around her.

"I love you." She forces it out of her throat, the phrase sounding so cliché and easy to say, even if a lie.

"I love you too . . ." The drowsiness in his voice tells her what she needs to know, and she closes her eyes, gently running her hand along the muscles of his back until he is asleep, pressing heavily on top. Merely moments ago his warm weight was comforting; now, it is a cage, keeping her down until morning.

Her thighs burn. Her fingers find the streaks of wetness on the sheets, her lips curving into a hollow smile. The darkness of the room betrays nothing of its occupants' thoughts, though she wishes she could see inside his head. In her mind's eye, she can see the wonderful white wedding dress crumpled in the corner, kicked off in the heat of the moment, the floral crown crushed underfoot. Ensuring that he is deep in slumber, she carefully pries his hands from her skin and rolls out from under him, the sheets cool on her heated flesh, sheltering the curves of her body.

"Korra." She tastes the word on her tongue. The Avatar who sacrificed her life for Republic City. Why would he say her name, after all of these years? Is she in bed with a man who doesn't love her?

No, she won't believe that. Not about him. He has been nothing _but_ loving to her since the Avatar gave her life to stop the Equalist threat; even his brother was surprised by his sudden devotion to her, as though she were the single being keeping him alive. Shifting slightly, she feels a gossamer touch on the small of her back, his fingers fluttering in his sleep.

"I love Mako." The words are empty. She repeats them quietly to herself, tracing out a heart on her inner arm. "I love Mako, and he loves me. He once loved Korra, but that was a long time ago, and he loves me now. He loves me." He rolls over onto his side, curling himself about the pillow as if requiring something to embrace. She reaches over to him and follows the dip of his spine down to just below his waist. "You love me, don't you, Mako?"

Asleep, he can only reply to her in silence.

She remembers the two of them leaning on each other under the spreading chestnut tree in Central Park, feeding the turtle duck with crumbs of bread tossed in the water while engaging in light conversation. Abruptly he squeezed her shoulder, kissed her cheek, and hushed her. "Listen to the silence, Asami," he told her, his eyes lit up with joy. "Sometime it is better to listen to the still beauty of the silence than to all of the noise in the world. You know, silent and listen are said with the same sounds." She laughed then, but he touched his finger to her lips. "Listen to how quiet silence can be. For me?"

So she listened to the silence for his sake, but truthfully she enjoyed the proximity of their bodies, her palm lightly brushing the fine, soft hairs on his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, their cheeks touching, their hearts connecting. A perfect fit, she mused there, listening to the silence, for each other.

Everyone says so even now. A perfect fit. A match made in the Spirit World. A spirit-send. Fate, destiny, a power still higher, bringing the lovebirds together in the best way possible, the holy sanctity of marriage.

"I do." The syllables are fresh in her mouth, spoken a few short hours ago. "Till death do us part."

_Till death do us part._

Why would he shout Korra's name when it was her, _her_, who gave him the happiness and the pleasure, who gave him her virginity, who gave him her entire life?

Why Korra?

Why?

She misheard. It's the only explanation. Her breath whistles through her teeth. "Paranoia. I'm being a paranoid silly little bride." She titters, light-headed, the room swaying around her. Nothing is stable, not even the bed, anchored to the floor, except for _him_. Him. She thinks, at least. She hopes. She prays.

He stirs, and her inhalation catches in her throat. "Mako? My beloved? Are you listening? Mako?" No, 'tis merely a movement in his dreams, the scarf about his neck—his sole article of clothing—hiding his expression for the moment.

Her heart drops into her belly, replacing the pooling heat that drove her to urge him harder, faster, stronger. Now it seems like a cruel game, a fluke of the universe, a chance roll of dice from the unforgiving universe culminating in this mockery of a marriage.

_Korra_, he shouted. Not _Asami_. _Korra_.

"Listen to the silence," he said.

She listens.

She listens to her slow and sorrowful heartbeat.

She listens to his calm breathing.

She listens to the silence.

She listens.

But he was wrong, that morning by the lake with the turtle ducks, that morning he confessed his love, that morning he asked for her hand in marriage.

He was wrong.

Because the silence isn't quiet at all.

No, she reflects, the pain between her legs settling to a dull throb.

Words are quiet.

Silence is the loudest speech of all.


End file.
